


Ready Or Not

by alistairweekend



Category: Portal (Video Game)
Genre: Blue Sky (Portal), F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-26
Updated: 2015-02-26
Packaged: 2018-03-15 07:52:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3439397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alistairweekend/pseuds/alistairweekend
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A follow-up to waffleguppies' incredible fanfic Blue Sky -- or, more specifically, the short <a href="https://www.fanfiction.net/s/7605308/1/Kick">Kick</a> -- in which Chell and Wheatley's child is born.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ready Or Not

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Blue Sky](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/100313) by waffleguppies. 



> I wrote this quite a long time ago and don't consider it my best writing by any means, but it's my most popular piece on tumblr so I figured I would share it here as well.

Wheatley woke up before dawn. Exactly why he had done so, he did not know, but he wasn’t upset about the fact that it was such an early hour. He had been having a good dream, it seemed, from the lingering half-smile on his face, but he couldn’t figure out what that had been about either. Briefly he considered attempting to go back to sleep and see if he could continue whatever the dream was, but then decided he wasn’t drowsy enough. Suppressing a groan, he sat up, simultaneously stretching and grasping for his glasses that sat on the floor next to the mattress. He knew the floor wasn’t the best place to keep something as fragile as glasses — trust him, he’d already broken two pairs from rolling off the bed alone — but putting them on a table meant they’d be out of reach, and heaven forbid he should have to  _stand up_  in the morning (he was already clumsy enough without grogginess hindering his movements).

 

With his glasses on, Wheatley could take in his surroundings much better. Not that there was much to absorb. The small bedroom was as bare and plain as when he had first crept in two years ago. Since then he had memorized every scuff and scratch on the walls, trying not to think too much of the four years of night terrors that had caused them. That he hadn’t been there to ease her out of, to hold her close after she awoke from the worst ones.

He shuddered. He’d have to bug her to get the walls repainted soon.

Speaking of  _her_ , though… Wheatley turned to the left and his eyes lit upon Chell, nestled under the mounds of blankets in her usual way so that only her head was visible. The pebble lamp sitting at the foot of the mattress was just bright enough to illuminate her smooth, tawny skin. Wheatley gently brushed back a lock of her black hair and was glad to see that her face was slack and calm and beautifully tranquil, not the tensed and concentrated and  _determined_  look that was indicative of an Aperture nightmare. She’d been having less and less of those lately, to his relief. Relief not only for himself not having to wake up every other night to her thrashing, or worse, grabbing at him with her vice-like hands (he had begun feeling sorry for the portal gun for when she’d been in possession of it), but for her well-being in general. Wheatley did not know how she managed to stay sane with those dreams plaguing her, especially since she didn’t find solace in talking about them to others. He’d been worried for a while.

His gaze traveled down the length of the heap of blankets. If he looked closely, he could make out a bulge in the area where Chell’s abdomen should have been, harder to see since she was lying on her side. Resisting the urge to rest a hand on it, Wheatley settled for drawing his knees up, resting his chin on them, and simply staring at his wife.  _Yes, that’s right, she’s my wife,_  he had to reassure himself from time to time. it seemed too good to be true sometimes; to the point where he would be reluctant to go to sleep on particularly blissful days, convinced he would wake up to find himself hooked up to Her torture devices once again in his old battered sphere body, the entire past two years — his entire life with Chell — a cruel idea of a joke to the psychotic she-computer.

The mere notion of it made his throat tighten with despair and utter horror.

Quickly he swiped a bony wrist over his nose and continued his earlier train of thought.  _Yes, she is my wife,_  he repeated to himself.  _And that is a real, live baby she has in her stomach. Weird as that is. But it’s_ my _baby, that she couldn’t have created without_ my _help. That’s right. It’s the product of me and her. Wheatley plus Chell equals… this baby._  In response to these thoughts his stomach tied itself into knots and did all sorts of acrobatics, but it was much preferable to the cold dread he’d felt just before. Wheatley had learned by now that when his stomach felt odd and fluttery, it was usually the result of nervous joy, which in turn was usually the result of him thinking of Chell or, more recently and in this case, the baby. At first he had been alarmed whenever the feeling arose, and when he had told Chell he was afraid something was wrong with him she had laughed. No explanation, just her amazing, sweet laughter. She never laughed without good reason, so he had taken it as a good sign and didn’t press the matter. And since then he hadn’t died, so that was encouraging.

Suddenly Wheatley’s train of thought was disrupted as a shiver ran up his spine. Glancing about in confusion, he pinpointed the source of the draft to the door, which the lamp outlined just well enough for him to be able to tell it was ajar. He hadn’t heard the telltale click it usually made when it decided it had had enough of staying closed. Wheatley had tried persuading it to not be so stubborn and annoying, but to no avail. So he found himself having to get up more than he’d like to and close it once again. Like he did right then.

Before he turned back to resume his deep thoughts, Wheatley considered going downstairs instead to make a nice breakfast for Chell. In fact, he’d almost convinced himself to do so when he paused to imagine the possible outcomes of the endeavor. Too many involved the house catching on fire or at least him burning the food. With a wince, he closed the door quietly and crept back to the mattress and its cozy blankets. He settled on a compromise: he’d wait until Chell woke up, and then he would make her breakfast as she sat and watched him and could tell him with that fondly amused look on her face if he was forgetting something on the stove or putting too much salt in the eggs.

This time, looking at Chell again, he couldn’t resist gingerly placing a hand on her belly. He was endlessly fascinated with the concept of pregnancy, if not a little freaked out by it. There was a human being inside her stomach, and not just any old human, a combination of him and her. Granted, it was a small human, but still. Wheatley wondered how it survived in there. To his knowledge there was no air present inside a person’s stomach, but he was no expert on human anatomy. He also wondered how it ate, and considered the possibility that the baby had somehow inherited his robot-ness )nevermind that he wasn’t a robot anymore) and therefore didn’t  _need_  to eat, until Chell explained to him that whatever she ate, the baby ate absorbed too through a tube connecting them inside. Wheatley supposed that made sense, with the baby being inside her stomach, after all. It still left the question of breathing, however, but he decided he’d just leave the subject be and take Chell’s word that their child was not an AI. And he was glad for it. Yes, despite the robotic perks of not having to eat, breathe, sleep, bathe, change clothing, and other various living-person necessities, Wheatley had started to like being human. Well, maybe minus the bathing part. But otherwise, he preferred being human, and would much rather have a human child as opposed to an AI one.

But that didn’t make him any less anxious. In fact, he was slightly  _terrified_  — about letting Chell down, letting the baby down, the baby possibly not liking him, what he was supposed to do to take care of it, so many things. He wanted,  _needed_ , to show Chell that he was capable and responsible and would be a good parent, but just how he was supposed to go about that he had no idea. From time to time he’d nearly convince himself:  _I can do this! How hard could it be? Hold the baby, give it food occasionally, talk to it — hey, I’m good at talking — put it to sleep at night. That’s how you do it, right? Not even a Test Baby would have a reason to cry about that._ But within a few days he’d be back to worrying profusely. Chell didn’t seem too worked up about it, however, so he tried to draw courage from her.

Underneath Wheatley’s hand, something stirred, and he had to smile. However this baby turned out, boy or girl, looking like Chell or looking like Wheatley, it would be an energetic little thing, that was for sure. Kicking was its specialty, it seemed. Even though the fact probably meant it would be harder to take care of, he found himself not caring. Underlying all that nervousness and uncertainty, there was a definite feeling of excitement. And if he focused on that anticipation and forgot his worries about being a parent, his heart swelled with happiness and pride.

Human emotions were strange, overly-complicated things. If he was honest, Wheatley was still trying to get the hang of keeping the sometimes-overwhelming feelings under control. Chell being pregnant was not helping in that department.

Another nudge was felt under his fingertips. Letting a sharp puff of air out his nose, Wheatley removed his hand and slid underneath the covers once again. “All right, all right, little one,” he muttered with an amused grin. “Hold your horses. No need to get upset. You’re not getting out here in the real world for another week. You can hold out that long, can’t you? Or, even, you could take longer if you wanted. There’s no rush or anything. Your mum and I haven’t even thought of a name for you yet. So, just, yeah, just take your time. I’ll let you know when we’ve got a name — or two, you know, one for if you’re a girl and one for if you’re a boy — not that we’d be giving you both names, of course, just one, that’s all you need — how’s that sound? I’ll be sure to tell you. And then you can pop on out! Or—”

Chell stirred in her sleep, frowning slightly and shifting onto her back. That shut Wheatley up; he didn’t want to wake her. Today was going quite well so far; usually by this time in the morning she had to get up and get sick. He would have hated to spoil it.

So he settled for lying still and enjoying the soft sounds of Chell’s breathing and the faint beginnings of birdsong outside. Before long, he began to doze off.

It couldn’t have been more than a half-hour when he was startled into consciousness again. For a moment he was puzzled; had someone been calling his name?

_“Wheatley.”_

It was Chell. Her voice was a hiss, and immediately Wheatley knew that something was off. Sitting up, he turned to face her, his eyes wide with concern as he pushed his glasses he had forgotten to take off back into his line of vision. “What? Is something wrong? Are you okay?”

Her face was pale and strained. Through gritted teeth, she managed, “The baby.”

That was all it took to send him into an anxious rant. “What? What about the baby? Is it kicking too hard? It it — oh, God, no, don’t tell me it’s  _dead!_  Oh, oh, okay, you’re shaking your head, at least that’s a good sign, um… You look like something hurts. A lot. Something — something is causing you a lot of pain. Very painful pain. That is not good! Don’t like seeing you in pain, at all — how could a baby be making you hurt so bad — ow!” He was cut off as Chell landed a fist on his arm, and obvious gesture to say  _Shut up!_

He paused for all of five seconds, and when she didn’t speak, he decided he couldn’t contain his worried chatter any longer. “I’m  _sorry_  if I’m annoying you, Chell, but, uh” — he laughed nervously — “you’re not— you’re not exactly giving me much to work with here. I need more info! This old human brain doesn’t process things nearly as — as well as a computer… Um. Just tell me what’s wrong!” His voice rose in pitch as he got more desperate by the second. “Or— Or you don’t have to, actually. I don’t even need to know what hurts. What I  _do_  need to know is what—  _how_  can I help? I want to help you, Chell!” He sat back on his heels and ran his hands through his already-tousled hair in anguish.

Chell took a deep breath and beckoned Wheatley to lean closer. She finally said, in a clipped and quick voice, “The baby. Is. Coming.  _Right now._ " A pause as she inhaled deeply once more. "Get. Dr. Dillon. Now.” She let out a gasp and her head fell back on her pillow, breathing hard.

_“Oh.”_  For a brief moment, Wheatley’s vision swam. It was happening, at that very second. Very soon the baby would be here. But he wasn’t ready! And nobody had said anything about the birthing process being  _painful_  for Chell. Suddenly the excitement and nervous joy for this baby turned into raw fear. What if something happened to Chell because of the baby? The mere thought kicked his already-panicky state up a notch.

But if he didn’t get her to Dr. Dillon ASAP, something bad probably  _would_  happen to Chell no matter what. Wheatley promptly snapped out of his daze.

“Chell, just— just stay here!” Stupid thing to say, but he wasn’t too concerned with impressing her with wits at the moment. “I’ll be right back!” and with that he sprinted out the door.

***

The following ten hours were the most terrifying in Wheatley’s entire life. Even after his time in Aperture he could not recall a time he had experienced so much fear as he did in those moments.

He could barely even remember rushing to get Dr. Dillon. On any other occasion, he would have been apologetic about waking her up so early, but it was a dire situation. Luckily she was used to being woken up for emergencies anyways, so there were no hard feelings.

The thickly-eyebrowed woman wasted no time in hurrying over to Chell’s residence, and, with Wheatley’s help, managed to transport Chell to a proper place to give birth — also known as the same room she had been put in when Wheatley had carried her bleeding and dying from Aperture to Eaden two years ago. Unfortunately there was no time to stop and appreciate the irony.

As soon as Chell was more or less settled into a bed, Dr. Dillon turned to a fretting Wheatley, whose motormouth was at full speed. “It’s all right, Wheatley,” she assured him. “This is all completely normal. Chell is going to be fine. You can leave the room now, in fact. Thank you for your assistance.”

He was taken aback for a moment. He could just… leave? And come back once it was over? The idea was appealing, and he considered it for a moment. Then he glanced back at Chell, trapped in a world of agony he couldn’t even begin to imagine solely judging by the look on her face, and all thoughts of leaving disintegrated on the spot. She hadn’t expressed so much hurting on her face since two years ago, and that had been when she was  _dying_. Wheatley was even tempted to think that this pain looked  _worse._  And because of that, he couldn’t leave her. He needed to prove to her he had her back, whatever the situation. Others might say he’d already proven his worth several times over during the past two years, but he didn’t care. He would prove himself — prove  _it_  — every chance he could, because he knew there was no true way to take back all the things he’d done in the past, and no way to truly make it all up, not completely. But some was better than none.

“No,” he croaked, then cleared his throat and gulped. “No, that’s all right, I’ll stay.”

Dr. Dillon hadn’t been paying attention — clearly he had taken too long to answer. “What? Oh. Well, if you’re going to stay, at least get out of the way. Here, go stand next to her. She’ll probably want to hold your hand.”

Wheatley raised an eyebrow but did as he was told, muttering half to himself, “Okay, so she’s in pain, got that, that is very obvious, but what would she need to hold my hand for? Not exactly the most touchy-feely, is she, and even if she was I would imagine holding hands would be the last thing on her miaaAAAAH!” His exclamation was one of shockingly unexpected pain as Chell reached for his hand and squeezed with all her might. Which was saying something; unsurprisingly, the woman could grip things with frightening strength.

Thus, the following hours were a haze of suffering and fear for Wheatley. Okay, he admitted Chell was probably in a  _lot_  more pain than himself, but still. By the the end of it all both his hands were red and throbbing.

Wheatley found himself sitting in a chair in the front room of the doctor’s office Dr. Dillon also called her home. His face was buried in his aforementioned aching hands, although the swollen heat radiating off them did nothing to help the sweat he’d worked up just from being scared out of his mind alone.

At some point Dr. Dillon had sent him out of the room, telling him it was almost over and he probably didn’t want to see the last bit. Too exhausted to argue, Wheatley had complied, but now he couldn’t remember how long ago that had been. It could have been a minute just as easily as an hour.

His brain was recovering from the panicked state he’d been in since the break of dawn, but that also meant he was regaining his pessimistic imagination. What if something bad had happened to the baby? What if something bad had happened to  _Chell?_  What if, even if they were both fine, Chell held his leaving the room at the very end against him? What if—

“Wheatley.” It was the doctor. Her voice had a strange sort of lightness to it that Wheatley was unaccustomed to hearing from the stoic woman. Startled, he dropped his hands and shook his head as if to clear away a daze, and looked up. Dr. Dillon was standing in the doorway, holding a small bundle in her arms. For some inexplicable reason Wheatley’s throat constricted, and he realized that it must have been the baby she was holding.  _His_  baby.

He stood up uncertainly, leaning forward as Dr. Dillon came towards him like he was examining a small, dangerous animal that could turn on him any second.

“Congratulations,” the doctor said warmly, holding the bundle out so Wheatley could see it better. “You’ve got a healthy baby girl.”

He was first struck by how it looked  _not_  like a Test Baby at all, and rather more like a pinkish, squishy potato. But a nice potato. Then he noticed the wisp of blonde hair on the thing’s head, and at that he was positively awestruck. It was a Little Chell, and yet she had  _his_  hair! He’d read a bit about human genetics at other people’s insistence before when Chell had first become pregnant, but he was still caught off-guard. Without realizing it he had just assumed that the child would inherit everything from Chell (besides maybe robot-ness).

“Here,” Dr. Dillon said, reaching forward with the baby. Before he could question her motives, she put the baby in his arms. “Hold her head like this — there, you’ve got it.”

The infant was tiny, or maybe Wheatley’s hands were just big, because its — her — head was only slightly larger than the palm of his hand. For once in his life he was completely speechless, only able to stare. For a moment, all was silent, then the baby stirred and opened her eyes. Pale, crystalline, gray-blue, and startlingly beautiful. Chell’s eyes.

“H-Hello, Little Chell,” Wheatley murmured, suddenly finding his voice, which of course cracked. He didn’t care, though, and his mouth broke into one of his signature goofy grins. “I thought— I thought I told you to wait another week.” He laughed helplessly, hanging his head so that his forehead barely touched the baby’s own. She stared at him in a way that could only be called curiously, her stark eyes remarkably intelligent for being less than a few hours old. 

And if the entire scene wasn’t pathetic enough, Wheatley’s eyes began to leak.

***

Two hours later, after Chell had a chance to rest, Wheatley regained his composure, and Dr. Dillon finished all the cleaning that needed to be done on both the baby and in the operating room, everyone found themselves gathered around Chell’s bedside as she held her new child. “Everyone” included not only the ones present for the delivery, but also Garret Rickey, Aaron Halifax, Romy Hatfield with her twins, and Elli Otten.

“Can I see?” Ellie asked, her head popping up on Chell’s right side. Chell smiled and shifted the bundle of orange blankets in her arms so the little girl could get a better look at the infant’s face. Ellie’s eyes were alight with wonder, and after a few moments she glanced up and stated rather bluntly, “The monster will be a good daddy.”

Everyone chuckled as Wheatley blushed from his place at Chell’s left. Ellie’s odd nickname for him was well-known, and by then was seen as a term of endearment rather than an insult. Still, only the young girl called him that, and in return Wheatley still referred to her as “Wellies” even though he had long ago discovered that was not her actual name and she had grown out of the battered rain boots since they’d met.

“That’s a well-behaved kid if I ever saw one,” Aaron commented, eyebrows raised to show he was impressed. “She hasn’t made a peep since we all came. Think she’ll turn out like you, Chell?”

Chell looked amused and was about to reply when Dr. Dillon interrupted. “Oh, don’t let her fool you, that baby sure was screaming when she came out. She may be quiet in the future but look out when she does talk — she’s got her dad’s voice!”

That extracted more laughs from everyone but Wheatley, who glanced around, bewildered — _What? She’s got my voice too? How is that even possible?_ — until he realized it was a joke, at which point he joined in even though he didn’t entirely get it. The possibility that he was the butt of this particular joke crossed his mind, but he didn’t really care. Back at Aperture, being made fun of was not a pleasant experience, emotionally or even physically on occasion. But in Eaden, it could be a good thing. It was okay. Everything in Eaden with his friends was okay, and it at least felt like it would stay okay for a long while yet, and that was perfectly fine with Wheatley.

“So what’s the little bundle o’ joy’s name gonna be?” Garret spoke up. He was sitting in a chair in front of Wheatley, leaning forward and waggling a finger in front of the baby. She, in turn, tried to grasp at the thick digit, which brought a delighted grin to the man’s stubbly face. He had tried a clean-shaven look recently, but everyone — Wheatley most of all — had protested so much that he had given in and began growing his signature beard back.

Chell blinked as if the thought had never occurred to her and quickly peered up at Wheatley. “Actually, we never got around to thinking of names…” she told Garret.

“Of course you didn’t!” Romy interjected before Garret could reply. “Leave it to Chell and Wheatley to not even consider any names during the nine months they had.” She rolled her eyes, then scooped up a small book sitting on the end table next to her chair and tossed it to Wheatley over the bed. She laughed as he fumbled to catch it. “Better pick one out now,” she added with a wink once he’d secured it in his hands.

Wheatley observed the title of the weathered book —  _Cherished and Meaningful Baby Names_ — and began thumbing through it. “Um… Should I just— call out names as I see them?”

“Sure,” Chell said, smiling encouragingly at him.

“‘Mmkay, uh… there’s… Abigail? Says here it means ‘father rejoicing’. That could work. I  _am_  pretty happy about all this. Ecstatic, really.” He looked up as the people around murmured their opinions. “What’cha think?”

His wife pursed her lips and appeared thoughtful before shaking her head.

Wheatley shrugged and looked back to the book. “Agatha…? Ooh, actually nevermind, I can’t say I really like that one. Un-Unless you like it? A lot…?” Again his gaze found Chell, his brows now drawn together in an expression that clearly said  _Please don’t tell me you actually think we should name our child this I may be an idiot but I know this is a terrible name,_  and to his relief she shook her head with a chuckle.

“Phew, have to say I’m pretty glad you didn’t say yes to that… Anyways!” He proceeded down the list for a few more names, each of them not quite fitting what either him or Chell had in mind, nevermind that they weren’t quite sure what they _did_ want. By the time he got to the Bs, Wheatley became impatient and took to flipping to random pages. Some names were seriously considered — like Angela (Wheatley particularly liked that one because it was similar to “angel”, and he’d come to think of Chell as an angel of sorts. He’d never gotten the guts to tell her that, however, so his argument was that it sounded nice. Chell, unfortunately, was unconvinced.) — while others were downright atrocious — such as Prudence (of course the twins thought that it was hilarious and urged them to choose it).

After ten minutes or so, Wheatley became fed up and tossed the book to the ground in disgust. The resulting slap the cover made on the hard wooden floor, even though it wasn’t that loud, seemed to startle the baby. She began to wail.

Wheatley felt his heart constrict in terror and utter guilt. His hands grabbed at his hair as Chell rocked and cooed their daughter. “Ohhh, I’m such an idiot! Stupid, stupid me… I’m going to be rubbish at being a dad, I just know it.” Voicing the fears he had kept inside for so long did nothing to help.

“Oh, stop that, Wheatley,” Dr. Dillon quipped, snapping him out of his despair. “You _will_ be a bad parent if you keep that up. She’s going to cry sometimes; get used to it quick. Now, help your wife.”

Her gaze was so intense and intimidating, Wheatley complied without question. Swallowing nervously, he leaned over the bed to get a better look at the crying child. “Heeey, sweetie,” he began. He wasn’t sure where “sweetie” came from; it just seemed sort of right to call her that. “Um, could you maybe, uh, stop crying? Do your dad a favor, yeah?” Hesitantly, he reached a hand over and waved a finger above her tiny outstretched hands like Garret had done earlier, hoping to distract her. It didn’t really help, but he kept at it, desperate. “Okay, no favor for me then, um… Well, how about— how about, if not for me, then, you could stop for Chell? For your mum, that is. She’s pretty worn out, if I say so myself, having spent the past ten hours giving… birth… to you… Not a pleasant experience, I would imagine, uh… No, none of this is working, is it? You obviously don’t care too much…” His face fell and he withdrew his hand, feeling incredibly helpless. His head turned to look at Chell, ready to apologize for what a terrible parent he evidently was, but to his surprise she was smiling at him, warm and understanding. “It’s all right,” she said reassuringly. “You’ll get the hang of it.” That made him feel better, but he still felt like he was letting her down somehow, and that was the worst feeling he could ever feel. He sighed and returned his gaze to the baby, who was now squirming and kicking. Chell resumed gently rocking and hushing the infant.

A few moments later, a small voice spoke from beside Wheatley. “Sophie?”

Blinking quizzically, he glanced down to see Ellie, who was standing in between Garret’s legs and had her elbows propped on the edge of the bed, watching the upset baby intently. “Who—?” Wheatley started, then was distracted again. “Hey, she’s calmed down! Whaddya know!” He couldn’t help but break into a wide, relieved smile.

The baby sobbed a couple times, then hiccuped a few more, and finally settled back down with a moan and a gurgle. Chell let her head fall back against the pillow resting against the headboard in thankfulness.

Wheatley gave his attention back to Ellie. “What was that all about? Who’s Sophie?”

“I think her name is Sophie,” she said quite matter-of-factly, nodding at the baby.

He began to chuckle, then he caught Garret shrugging in the corner of his eye. “I dunno. I kinda like it, if my opinion counts for anything. And she did quiet down at the sound of it.”

Okay, that was probably a coincidence and nothing more, but nonetheless it got Wheatley to consider the name seriously. He regarded Chell imploringly.

She took on a thoughtful look, then nodded. “I wouldn’t mind that,” she offered. The rest of the people in the room murmured their consent.

“Why don’t you look it up and see what it means?” Aaron suggested. Wheatley bent down to grab the baby name book and set to leafing through the back end of it.

“Where…? Oh, here we are! Hm, it says ‘variant of Greek name Sophia, meaning wisdom’.” He closed the book, smiling. “I rather like it. She’s gonna need wisdom, with me as her dad.”

Garret scoffed. “Don’t be so hard on yourself, buddy.”

Wheatley was about to protest, but Romy interrupted. “Ahem! So, Sophie it is, then?”

“As far as I’m concerned. As—as long as Chell is too, that is,” he said, meeting her eyes one more time for confirmation. She nodded, gray eyes tired but at the same time so happy it made Wheatley want to dance and sing. He thrived on her happiness alone, it seemed, although he had a feeling a new source for that had just entered his life.

“Sophie it is, then,” he repeated Romy’s words, sealing the deal. Dr. Dillon smiled and left to go get a birth certificate form to write it down and he sat down on the bed next to Chell. She offered him the baby and he tentatively took the bundle, not entirely confident but determined to show her he could do it. Wheatley could be a dad, and he’d try his best to be a good one even if it meant stepping out of his comfort zone.

Chell rested her head on Wheatley’s shoulder, stroking the child’s tuft of fair hair. “Hello, Sophie,” she said, and Wheatley could hear the smile in her voice.

“Hello, Sophie,” he repeated in agreement.


End file.
